Virgin Doll

Ever the seeker, I slid open the large, gold-trimmed drawer in Virginia's monolithic dresser, hoping to uncover some embarrassing little bauble or at least see what it is she wears under all those layers of clothes. My eyes are fully prepared to find thongs and more prophylactics then one person could possibly use in a year. So I felt dazed to observe only a small, pallid porcelain doll resting limply in the back corner therein, as though hidden. I tenderly and carefully lift it from its secluded bed and smell a thick musk of potpourri that had applied to it to mask the scent of its slow disintegration from this world.

The delicate tufts of hair feel as though someone tried to replicate corn silk and gave up far too soon. The hair falls to mid-shoulder on the doll, though in reality it must have been longer and frivolously sheared in a fit of youthful exuberance. Its mane was decidedly unkempt, and appeared to almost pain the doll. Its owner had epoxied a small hat intended for a Barbie doll to its head, evidently giving substance to the wish that it was a different kind of doll.

Its pupils were bright and blue, but upon closer inspection, were simply a painted facade. The doll was made with no such happy eyes, and were applied as a casual afterthought to make its value possibly increase. The white of the eyes appeared quite faded and chipped as though the doll had once been a prized possession, now fallen to utter disuse.

The pale face seemed glossy and flawless at first, until a ray of sunlight revealed the truth. Hairline cracks ran across its face, giving in the offensive appearance of a juvenile with premature wrinkles. The seeming porcelain was in fact a coarse clay covered in opalesque varnish. Still, the lustrous coloring was quite eye-catching at first. The added fragility of the infinitesimal cleaves make the doll seem all the more precious, though one could barely breathe for fear that is would waste to dust.

The doll's rose dress was entirely ersatz antique lace. Virginia had obviously wanted this delicate doll to be far older than it really was or could be. The way this supplanted dark dress clung to the doll's pale frame seemed almost obscene in its incongruity, like a Victoria era child prostitute.

Its bloodless hand seemed frozen in the middle of some obscene gesture, lie one admonished by a parent. The hands seemed to be seeking my fingers, just to be sure they were there after not feeling a caring touch for an incalculable time. The thickness of its fingers would have made it impossibly to grasp anything, but the doll gave the impression that it would have tried.

The feet were far to tiny to ever allow the doll to stand on its own. It would always need a support to lean on, else it would fall to the ground and there remain forever. They were wrapped up in normal sized bandages, as though Virginia had been trying to make the feet even smaller. I shuddered at how it reminded me of the photos I had seen of the deformed feet of Chinese brides, without realizing the price of their "beauty."

As Virginia open the door, to seek my solace from yet another cruelty inflicted on her by her world, my grip involuntarily loosened and the wan doll slipped from my fingers onto the floor beneath. It shattered to a million sparkling pieces on the hard ground. Looking at her, I felt no need to apologize. The doll was finally in peace.